


(The Trouble With) Conviction

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death has always loomed over Sylar's relationship with Mohinder. Sylar takes stock in what that means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(The Trouble With) Conviction

**Author's Note:**

> Written for greyelveneyes' lyrical prompt (quoted at beginning of fic)

_“You could have been all I wanted,   
But you weren’t honest,   
Now get in the ground.   
You choked off the surest of favours,   
But if you really loved me,   
You would have endured my reign.” _  
**-Coheed and Cambria, **_**Welcome Home**_

 

Sylar has seen his death in Mohinder’s eyes many times. Barely concealed, the murderous glint sparks a twitch in the crinkled corners and Sylar recognizes the dilation of those dark pupils calling out vengeful promises and wicked intent best left unsaid.

Five years after they first met in a stranger’s house and passionate discontent continues to permeate the space between them, filling in every available nook and cranny. They constantly move around each other with careful precision disguised behind cool indifference or professional resignation. Tentatively working on the same side has done little to assuage the tainted past they share. It stings and bites; hissing tragic tunes of a playlist beholden to them. They are proof that the more things change the more they stay the same.

Debatable points about the “new and improved” Company’s handlings may eventually find them in the same corner regarding how best to avoid the organization’s poisoned grasp and fight back, but it can not mask the faint glimmer of distaste that tightens the lines of Mohinder’s clenched jaw when he glances Sylar’s way. Committed to memory (in a way Sylar can relive in exact detail) are the ways Mohinder either recoils; subtle as it may be, from any invasion of personal space or stiffly wills himself to stand it, not moving _at all_ so as not to accidentally show weakness. He sees the way Mohinder eyes the movement of his body from across the room as if his presence induces a rash irritation for having to share the same space, the same air. He hears the exasperation that comes first, followed by Mohinder’s switch in tone (with dejection and tired acceptance) to something more cordially accepting.

Sylar is certain that with each meeting a new death fantasy unfolds against the film screen in Mohinder’s mind. He knows it in the sound of the blood suddenly rushing like a freight train through Mohinder’s body when he whips a sarcastic or argumentative remark that rankles Mohinder’s polite disposition. It would be a lie if he pretends that snapping Mohinder’s fingers backwards and incising bloody lines in a dissection of his skin does not cross his mind at the same time, but for his own part it is never to the death.

As for Mohinder’s intentions, that is a very different story. Sylar once found his relentless verve enticing and intoxicating. He used to admire the drive that never subsided to avenge Chandra and all the others unfortunate enough to get caught in the crosshairs of his quest to achieve greatness. It was a tenacity once marveled at for its authenticity—so very human, so very _Mohinder_.

Sylar used to consider it endearing—until it wasn’t.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** **********   
**

Some of the most cherished memories are the ones that hasten the blood, awaken the mind and conjure an unexpected smile while they are being made. The roadtrip to New York was one of those memories-in-the-making milestones that demanded later reflection.

Lies aside, Sylar had wondered if he was finally experiencing one of those rites of passage—getting in the car and going on a (not quite) cross country journey that the books he read through high school demanded of youth. To find himself in the passenger seat of a rental car, tasting the thrill of a _normal_ experience first hand was unnerving (he was supposed to be above such simple pleasures), but it was a surprise he cherished nonetheless. Bad songs on the radio and, more importantly, intelligent, witty conversation punctuated stops at greasy spoon diners, the straight seemingly hypnotic lines of long stretches of road and otherwise easy silence.

Mohinder held his undivided attention and when Sylar pushed his ruse as Zane Taylor to the background, he found he enjoyed Mohinder’s company in return, even craved it. Mohinder made him laugh—a true, honest to goodness laugh—and debated challenging ideas that Sylar thought intrigued no one but himself. For the first time it felt good to be wrong about someone.

Of course had he known that Mohinder was analyzing his every move and reading through the false persona to uncover the real him, he would have appreciated Mohinder all the more before the other shoe hastily dropped. As it was, profound and undying respect came in the blink of an eye and a near death experience. There was no white light; rather he saw his aborted future down the dark tunnel of a gun’s barrel, with an itchy finger fondling the trigger.

Even if Mohinder did not know it, he had seen the real man behind the performer’s stage name, the man on the other side of the red curtain. Their destiny was written in blood. An almost betrayal set in motion their coupled existence—one breath, one heartbeat; life and death miraculously bound in contaminated hooks.

_I should have known you had it in you._

The curtain drawn brought forth a new beginning. The discovery of an unlikely adversary and an unwitting ally was finally in the cards, and the future was ensconced in endless possibility.

_Catch me if you can.   
_  
Sylar did not see it as making excuses, but redefining the rules of their engagement. Whether Mohinder deserved to live was neither here nor there. He was the breath to Sylar’s lungs, the kick in his heels and the spring in his step; he was the oil to the gears in Sylar’s overworked mind.

He figured Mohinder understood that.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** ************

 

The bullet enters the back of his head and for all intents and purposes he should be dead as a doornail or a least permanently incapacitated. But shape-shifting isn’t just an alteration of the superficial façade. It engages a transformation of his biological makeup as well. In a nutshell the “soft spot” that once would have spelled a doom and gloom end for him has now been shifted to a point in his body as yet unknown.

Which is obviously news to Mohinder, a tidbit made all the more apparent when Sylar turns to glare at him and is greeted with surprised widening eyes from behind a (slowly lowered) smoking gun.

Their recon mission is not supposed to end this way. When Peter told them they needed to collect pertinent information from the work files of Doctor Joshua Chan (apparently developing a serum that is being presented as a breakthrough to contain wayward abilities when in fact it can and will be used to put the subjects under the frighteningly suggestive control of others) the job was described as a straightforward in-and-out deal with Mohinder playing the curious “I’m a scientist too, tell me about your work” bait while Sylar did a rapid search of the offices.

The job was done in a flash and on their way out of the building he fit the transferred files into Mohinder’s hand in the form of a USB key and led them on a quick, uninterrupted escape (helped by the fact that Chan’s insistence at working at 1:00 meant there was nary a soul to be found) through the hallways and across the empty (save for four sporadically placed cars) parking lot.

As it is, Sylar hardly has time to react to the sound of the gun clicking behind him. The silencer may muffle the sound but it is the piercing pain and the forward momentum of the hit to his head that forces him to stop and turn around slowly. He meets Mohinder’s gaze and narrows his eyes, grimacing as he reaches his right hand up behind the back of his head and fingers the wound, pushing inwards until his fingernails grip the circumference of the bullet and he is able to pull it out with a bit of exerted effort. Deliberately he holds it up between them and rolls his fingers, turning it around.

Mohinder’s eyes flit from his to the bullet and then back to his menacing stare. Sylar flicks the bullet to the ground and stretches out his left hand, telekinetically snatching the gun from Mohinder’s hands. Calling forth Zane’s ability (and there is a certain poetry to its use in this moment) Sylar melts the gun enough to jam it and render it useless. He drops it to the pavement with a loud clang.

Again with his left hand stretched out, back of it facing forward, he forcibly brings Mohinder closer until he can fit his left hand around Mohinder’s neck with a suffocating grip. He feels the muscles in Mohinder’s neck constrict and tense as air is cut off and the need to struggle—to survive—takes over. Deep lines accentuate Mohinder’s tight jaw and his eyes widen and close in scared desperation.

Sylar peers at him coldly, disbelieving the actions taken against him. He knows full well the dichotomy of life and death has always existed between them. It is what infuses intent and urgency in every movement exchanged and every word delivered. The threat of death always hangs over them, but actually delivering on the promise of a fatal deathblow is not in the cards.

He is mindful that although Mohinder was smart to wait for the opportunity to best take him out (and really, Sylar should be more careful about putting his back to him); there is something arguably cowardly about shooting him from behind with no pronouncement for final words. It is more tactical precision than honour bound. It is a betrayal of the rules.

Sylar holds his right hand up to Mohinder’s eyes showing off the blood from the close call, the backfired attempt on his life.

“Badly done, Mohinder,” he sneers and flexes his left hand until Mohinder slips into unconsciousness.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** ************

 

Despite the internal rage that threatens to consume him and leave a trail of bloodied regrets, Sylar does not tie Mohinder up with the singular purpose of teasing him back into a waking state only to begin a torturous inquisition. Instead he returns to Mohinder’s apartment, laying the limp body on the living room sofa, and takes up a seat on the armchair next to him. Gripping the armrests strongly, the stretched skin across Sylar’s knuckles is bright white and he glares straight ahead at nothing in particular while being mindfully aware of any movement indicating consciousness to his left.

Time passes and whether it is minutes or hours hardly matters. Sylar remains unmoving and focused as Mohinder eventually stirs and groans. He notes Mohinder righting himself upwards, putting his feet on the floor and cradling his head in his hands while resting his elbows on his knees.

“After everything I’ve done for you,” Sylar finally states clearly.

Mohinder turns his face and wrinkles his brow. “You have got to be kidding. Are you honestly surprised given who you are and what you’ve done?”

Sylar steadies a steely gaze on Mohinder. “Still so rigidly black and white, I see, when you know for a fact—when _everything_ you’ve experienced is nothing like that,” he says.

Mohinder drops his hands and rises to his feet, glaring down at Sylar. “But there is one thing I know with absolute certainty. I will not rest until you pay for what you’ve done.”

Sylar stares up at him from beneath heavy set eyebrows and bites back his tongue. Slowly he stands up. “Like you’ve paid for all the things you’ve done? Things I’ve _willingly_ turned my eyes from—,”

“How could you possibly compare my wrongs to yours?”

“You think there isn’t someone out there with a target on your back?” Sylar’s voice is loud and his words clipped as he steps forward. “You think Claire hasn’t thought about putting a bullet in your head? Or how about Maya?”

Sylar leans into Mohinder. “Hypocrisy isn’t your strong suit.”

“Screw you.”

Sylar mockingly tsks and points a chastising right index finger in the air. “Don’t be rude. I simply speak the truth. Just because you don’t want to hear it—well, no need to shoot the messenger.” He levels a ridiculing smile.

“Taking sage advice from an egomaniacal murderer?” Mohinder raises an eyebrow. “Now I really am mad.”

“Doesn’t it feel good?” Sylar asks with a low rumble.

“Hardly,” Mohinder manages to spit out through gritted teeth. Jutting his face forward so that he is nearly nose-to-nose with Sylar, raw emotion vibrates off his body and drips from his tongue. “Your life is predicated on destroying others. No matter how nice you may play once in awhile it is always with a selfish and ultimately destructive goal in mind.”

“You think you know me so well?”

“My father, Brian, Dale, Zane, the Walkers, Alejandro, Isaac, Nathan, Charlie, Peter—,”

“And yet I’ve spared your life.”

Mohinder scoffs. “I wouldn’t call what you’ve done to my life merciful.”

Sylar ignores him and speaks louder to drown him out. “How many opportunities have I had to kill you and how many have I taken?”

He sees bitter recognition flash in Mohinder’s eyes and smirks when he takes a small step back. Sylar can picture the gears in Mohinder’s brain spinning into action.

Now it is Sylar’s turn to scoff. “You really think you’d be here if I didn’t _let you_?” He makes up the step between the and roughly cups his right hand around the back of Mohinder’s neck.

“You still exist because I will it to be so. Do not forget that.”

“Why me?” Genuine disbelief weighs down Mohinder’s question, demanding an explanation for a question he may not really want the answer to.

Sylar considers all the elaborative reasons he could give, and he knows what the devastation of that truth, unfettered and plain as day, will be on Mohinder.

_You’re a lot like me. You are the counter to my attack._

Sylar settles on, “Do you really need to ask?”

Mohinder tries to wrench free from Sylar’s grip but he is held firmly in place. Sylar stares him down until Mohinder skits his eyes away and Sylar knows that he knows.

“Should I be honoured?” Mohinder says quietly, angrily.

“Yes.” Sylar jerks Mohinder’s head forward.

For a split second Sylar sees disgust give way to fear as the reality of their precarious situation crosses Mohinder’s face. He feels it in the rise and fall of Mohinder’s body temperature and hears it in the surge of his blood. But a second later Mohinder proves exactly why he exists within a different consideration for Sylar’s admiration than anyone else.

Determination settles into the lines of Mohinder’s face and he awkwardly brings his arms up between them, folding them across his chest. “It means you have a weakness.”

Sylar tilts his head to the side in curiosity.

“Me,” Mohinder says without hesitation.

Sylar should refute the claim on principle, but hearing it spoken out loud stokes a charge through his body and reverent relief in his mind. “Is that so?” he asks not needing an answer.

Mohinder pulls out of his grip and shoves in the chest with both hands. “The difference in our scenarios is that I promise this will end with you dead.”

“You could try.” Sylar let loose a small laugh.

“I will. No matter what it takes,” Mohinder promises and the truth of his conviction is impressive as well as unfortunate. It ensures that death, always a prominent yet elusive theme; will continue to hang over their every future dealing, looming more and more ominously (though excitedly) with each meeting.

“No doubt,” Sylar says then tilts his head forward and turns up a half smile. “But not today.”

Before Mohinder can react Sylar lunges at him and slams their heads together. Once again unconsciousness claims Mohinder.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** ************

 

A two days head start turns into a week that in turn becomes a month. Sylar catches up to Mohinder relatively fast but hangs back. He grins each time he spies Mohinder suddenly look over his shoulder or pause mid-sentence as he if he can sense Sylar’s eyes upon him.

They both know that their next face-to-face will be the beginning of the end, even if that battle remains low on the priority list while they go through the motions of working together. It is a thrilling prospect for the purpose it instills in each second; simultaneously it is a long drawn out death drive with an inevitable ending that hints of the void that lies beyond.

Sylar cannot help but wonder who either of them is without the other. It is unimaginable at this point. If one’s true respected adversary, the other side to the coin, is removed from the equation, does one cease to exist anymore?

He knows Mohinder will hold true to his word and try to kill him. Mohinder is nothing if not persistent and driven (recklessly so at times)—and creative. As safe as Sylar feels in a lofty perch from afar and with a selection of abilities unrivalled, he has to be careful not to get complacent and become ultimately blind to his surroundings. Mohinder counts on being underestimated for his intelligence and will. Sylar has been on the receiving end of that mistake a couple of times, enough so that it irritates and warms him with familiarity.

He puts off initiating contact with Mohinder under the (un) convincing pretense of ascertaining the full picture in a bid of reconnaissance. But the nagging reality is that he does not want to kill Mohinder—not yet, if at all. No matter the (once old now new again) battle brewing between them, Sylar is hesitant to even contemplate what he will need to do, what is commanded of him if he plans to be the last man standing.

The price of losing—and that is what it will be—to win is riddling. Unfair and tragic, it is a test of his bona fide strength of character. He has to be able to set aside the personal for the political. Although that seems easier said than done—how was he suppose to know he would meet someone so intricately entwining both as naturally as he does?

So Sylar extends the deadline until their final act begins. He maintains a state of flux, teetering on the brink, ready to spring forward or jump back. He holds it at an arms length with his fingertips barely making contact but very much conscious of the inevitable.

Mohinder will not rest until he has exacted the most fitting revenge he can deliver. He _will_ kill Sylar.

That is, unless Sylar can find it in himself to strike the fatal blow against Mohinder first.

Therein lies the rub. Starting the game was easy enough but finishing it requires a certain tenacity and brilliance, something Sylar has always prided himself on. But believing and doing are two different things.

Mohinder _is_ his weakness.

And what better way for Sylar to prove he is unparalleled and not debased by such shortcomings than by slitting its throat swiftly when the time comes.

He smiles grimly to himself.

_Now_ it begins.


End file.
